


Silenced Reprieve

by mythomagicallydelicious



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Dissociation, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Memory Alteration, POV Second Person, Sensory Overload, Warning: Trent Ikithon, asylum years, touch and sound mostly, vergessen asylum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27267808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythomagicallydelicious/pseuds/mythomagicallydelicious
Summary: The cost of some peace of mind is your peace of mind--getting what you want can hurt you, even as you thank the source for a moment's reprieve from everything else bombarding you.
Relationships: Bren Aldric Ermendrud/Trent Ikithon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Silenced Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please mind the tags. This is dark. No comfort. This is a story about an abuse Caleb (Bren) might have gone through at the hands of a recurring visitor in his fogged over years in the asylum. 
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

_ Quiet. _

You need  _ quiet. _

But there are always, always, always, always too many  _ sounds. _

Tapping birds at the window. A sob picked up and howling through the hallway by others—like wolves in the night. An attendant scolding the grandfatherly neighbor one; two; three: doors down.

The breathing of a man in the hallway. The low conversations exchanged between feet shuffling to and fro. The squelch of a mop to the floor, the curses muttered yet somehow sounding as if yelled directly in your ear by the cleaner outside your room.

The wind shifts and branches creak outside your window, scraping at the old gray stone.

Your door is closed. You do not want to go out, today. You can barely stand the muffled sounds as it is—you cannot let yourself imagine how much worse it will be outside of your chambers.

The cloth draped over your shoulders sits heavy. It is oppressive, weighing upon your neck like an anchor, causing a migraine to form and soar through your skull. You pull your tunic over your head, careful to not touch it more than necessary, every brush of it against your skin too much sensation. You drop it to the ground as soon as it clears your head. Outside the branches scrape frantically against the window frame, and a draft leaks through the glass, chilling you to the bone.

The pricks of cold bite into your neck, but they do nothing to fight the itch the cloth left against your skin. Even bare, the feeling of it rough and heavy stays with you. You step forward, unsteady, to the window. To look for the branch still scratching at your window.

But the sun shines bright—too bright— _oh gott—_ and you spin away as soon as you step to it. Light-headed, eyes blinded with miniature stars bursting and fizzling, you fall to one knee. A dull pain shoots through that leg, but it’s nothing compared to the irritation the _thud_ causes your ears—one more _sound_ in a cacophony of _noise_ and you just wish it could be _SILENT_ _for one fucking SECOND—_

**. . .**

Your jaw is sore. There’s something covering your wrists. It itches but does not budge as you try to move them about. There’s a weight—a familiar weight—

Your jaw is sore like you fell on it, hands to ears and none to catch your fall—it wouldn’t be the first time.

Your throat hurts. Like you have been yelling. But why would you yell? All you want is quiet.

The weight shifts over you. It’s familiar. It’s foreign. It’s familiar? Did you get an extra blanket? Did your cat come back—

Your eyes blink open at the thought. Your cat isn’t sitting on your chest.

There’s an itch on your leg that you can’t reach. You open your mouth to ask the man straddling your thighs to itch it for you, but no sound leaves you.

No sounds usually leave you, but this feels different.

Your throat vibrates. You feel the motion of words forming on your tongue.

But it is quiet.

No— _ silent. _

The man watches your eyes flutter open. Watches your eyes dart down then up to his. The man shows his teeth and a new weight becomes apparent. You open your mouth. You scream, but it is  _ silent _ .

You’re cold and flushed and itchy all over—but at least it is quiet. There is a weight over you that is better and worse than your tunic at the same time—it is familiar and foreign and familiar is so rare beyond the expectations of birds tapping and sobs howling and curses muttered and branches scraping—

You close your eyes and start to grind your teeth, but the sound it makes inside your mind nearly makes you black out. The internal screech of nails on chalkboard, of bone crossing over bone is too much, and your jaw falls slack once more.

You’re hot and freezing and burning—burning in a place you forgot could  _ hurt _ nearly as much as sound does—and your body shudders and reviles the touch of scratchy sheets to your bare skin.

Your eyes are closed. You feel little warm puffs of breath on your face. Lemon tea. Your breaths are shallow and you imagine instead your cat is sitting on your chest. Kneading you with his claws. You’re sick with fever—you’re burning up and freezing cold and your cat is here to comfort you. Weighing you down and soothing the aching inside.

It is quiet.

Despite the burn, the itch, the weight, the smell of lemon tea, you drift to sleep. You see the man again in your dreams, his own shallow breaths audible now, as he leans over you. He curls one hand behind your neck, fingers locking into your tangled hair.

You hear him praise you, and you grow warm. Not hot, not hurt, just warm. Even as blood drips from your ear, you smile at the man.

The man leaves you, in this dream. In a room, alone, and it is silent.

When you wake up, you’re smiling. Despite the dried blood crusted under your jaw, a busted chin pulsing in waves of pain as you move and stretch into the morning. You’re smiling, and you can’t quite remember how you hurt your chin, or why your chest feels bruised, or what happened to make your thighs so itchy—

but it was a nice dream, you remember. It was nice to be surrounded by  _ silence _ , for once.

Outside the branches scrape against your window frame, and it does not bring a bolt of pain to your mind, and you keep your smile a little longer, that morning.

**. . .**

An attendant comes in a few moments later, a potion in hand. They pause, looking over you with their lip curled back and a roll to their eyes. Their scolding voice is nasal, whistling as they breathe in and berate you on their breaths out. Asking you questions you can’t quite connect—why  _ is _ there blood on your sheets? Your jaw is sore and tender and there’s blood under your jaw and under your thighs— _ and you’ve got a concussion to boot, the attendant tells you _ .

You look at them, and you open your mouth, and though your throat is raw with the proof of your speech—no sound escapes.

They  _ tsk _ at you one last time and gather your sheets, herding you into the common area as they go, locking you from your room in nothing but a thin, spare shift.

You shuffle to the main chambers and sit, facing the one window. You listen to the tapping of fingers on tables, of shuffling feet and brief, annoyed conversations. There’s yelling. Then nothing, as if it was never heard at all. No one even looks in the direction it came from.

You hear a different step, a break in the pattern of shuffles. A  _ swish _ of cloak that is foreign and familiar and you turn just slightly in your chair to see the visitor.

Your heart constricts, stutters, then stops for one moment, before picking back up into double time. There is a weight on your chest and your thin tunic suddenly feels like a hundred anchors, forcing your neck to bow under them. To force your eyes away, down.

Your heart is still beating too fast until the man says a few words.

And it goes quiet.

Finally, blissfully, quiet.

You think you mumble a  _ thank you _ but it goes unheard. Your eyes shut on their own. Your body slumps forward, chin slamming to the table, hitting the same scraped spot as before. But you do not wake.

**. . .**

“I will expect better care to be taken of my ward in the future, nurse. What happened, that he sustained such damage?” he asks, gesturing to the patient in question.

The nurse nods, chancing a small look up before folding back down into herself. “Sorry, sir, just a slip yesterday. He’s a clumsy one. We’ve been thinking to assign an assistant to observe close quarters for a week or two—to be sure his injuries are unintentional. Can’t have our patients hurting themselves.”

The man nods, lip curling up at one corner. “See that you do. It wouldn’t do for the young man to suffer more than necessary,” he says, eyes never leaving the slumped figure of the patient across the room.

“Of course, right away.”

“Oh, and one more thing—“he says, turning to face her, finally. “I will be visiting him a bit more often these next few weeks. I do miss him so. He was always my favorite conversationalist. That can be arranged, yes?”

The nurse bows her head a little lower, nodding into it. “Of course, sir. Whatever you wish.” She chews her lip a moment, glancing at the patient in question before speaking to the man before her again with a bit of reluctance. “Though, sir, I’m not sure how much back-and-forth you’ll be able to have with him. He’s practically silent most days, except when he goes into one of his fits.”

The man glares at her for a long moment, and she swallows hard at the cold silver of it. He inclines his head and continues as if she never interjected, however, and she takes the small mercy for what it is—a warning not to overstep her position again.

“And I expect these visits to be  _ private _ . I can watch him for an hour or two. I’m more than capable of taking care of him. Perhaps better than what you’ve managed to do with  _ my _ ward, if his current state is any indication,” he says with a hint of that diamond-hard ice in his voice and eye again.

“Yes, of course, Master Ikithon. Everything you ask will be done. We will be more vigilant of the patient’s habits in the future.”

The man turns his eyes back to the figure sleeping by the window. There’s a new glimmer in his eye—anticipation. “Excellent. Oh, how I look forward to spending time again with my dear Bren.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a complication in Bren about not wanting /that/ but also being thankful for the silence. This fic is meant to touch on that and how Ikithon knows how to manipulate the people around him.
> 
> (Also, the implication is that a few years have passed since he was admitted)
> 
> Hey for real, if I missed a tag you think needs to be warned for, let me know. I don't want anyone to read this unprepared or unexpecting.


End file.
